Through a Child's Eyes
by Bitumz
Summary: There had been tales told about powers like this. Stories meant for children, just before dreaming. He had never truly believed, not in much of anything other than war and the strength of a weapon in his hand. All else had been ripped away, so what use would there be in holding faith in what was gone? All children must grow up at some point. But this one had saved his life.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: AHHHH they've finally added a place to post Mandalorian fics!  
Please excuse my expelling of emotions as I attempt to fill the gaping void that is my life until Fall 2020.

This short story takes place in the stars, just between episode 3 & 4.

* * *

He tried to let the steady hum of the engines settle his thoughts.

What was this child? His scared eyes and small whimper as he was led to the back by the doctor still a stain on his memory. Away from his sight for the first time since he'd pressed the button to open his pod and killed in his name without hesitation.

An explanation was still slow to present itself to him. It was against the code to attach. To even question.

He was not a good man, the core of him hammered and shaped by every pull of a trigger and life brought to an end for its sins; and in that way he was not much different from his bounties, he knew, but never had it plagued him before. He had witnessed fear in many eyes, but never had it burned him so.

It brought back his fight with the mudhorn, his helmet sheathing the pain in his ribs and the wonder in watching the child lift the beast from the mud, from him, with a simple raise of its hand. He had been steeling himself for the sickening impact of a massive horn to his chest again, knowing well the limits of his armor. Savoring the feeling of the knife in his hands, hazy instincts warning that it could be for the last time. But he had never failed to retrieve a bounty and this child would not best him.

Just then, metal scratched softly behind him.

He turned to see the child sat upon the floor between the ship's rear seats, the metal ball from its shifter still clutched in his tiny hand. There were a few other parts near the child's feet that had not been given to him; a red switch from the turbo-thruster, the cylindrical ring for the de-icing system, and two coils from origins he could not be sure, though he had just rebuilt his ship from nearly scraps only two rotations ago.

He sighed at the thought but could place no real anger behind it.

The instinct to take what was his was ignored as he set the ship to autopilot, while the switch still remained in-tact, and turned back to watch instead.

The kid was focused, leaning forward from where he sat to nudge the coils into a long row with his empty hand. He cooed when they lined up perfectly and glinting eyes turned up to him for approval.

His mask gave none.

The child was unfazed, turning his attention back to his work and leaning the thin cylindrical ring against the metal base of the seat across from him. He relaxed then, shifting back to sit and pick up the red switch. He held it up for a moment, turning it in his hand as if to study its shape against the lights above.

Then he stuck it in his mouth.

"Hey…"

It was more reaction than anything else as he swiftly knelt, removing the foreign plastic. Still, the quickness made the child flinch.

He watched through his mask as the kid's face crumpled, something nearing pain squeezing his eyes.

"Hey," he said softer, cutting off the start of a whimper by gently holding the red switch back out to him. "Here."

The child hesitated, expression clearing but still unsure.

He placed the switch down on the ground at the child's feet instead.

All at once the sparkle returned to his eyes as he took the switch in his hand and promptly attempted to eat it a second time.

From his closer distance he was able to take it from him before it reached his mouth.

It struck him then that the child must be hungry. It had been such a long time since he had taken care of anything other than himself that the thought had failed to even cross his mind. It was unsettling, for he knew hunger. Even more so, its pain.

He slipped the switch into his pocket, rising to step across the small space to the cargo hold. Though he had retrieved most of his ship back from the Jawa, the food was most likely a different story.

"Vermin," the curse seared beneath his mask as he slid open the doors of the small pantry tucked high along the back wall.

He was surprised to see most of his rations were still there, along with a small brown knapsack that did not belong to him. On it lay a strip of faded material with a note scrawled in jagged script.

_My thanks_  
_I have spoken_

Something warm swept over him then. A dangerous feeling for one in his line of work to possess, but one he was not left unscathed from nonetheless.

He drew the string from the bag to search its contents. Inside there was a thick roll of ronto jerky, tubers of many colors, a small satchel of dried fruits, and a few small eggs of an unknown species.

All he knew was that the child ate meat and he did not care to see another egg for as long as he lived.

The ronto jerky would have to do.

As he made his way back out of the cargo hold, he froze at the sight before him.

The loose pieces of his ship that had been on the floor were now hovering inches above it. The child was focused, yet intrigued, his effort only showing in the slight crinkling of his brow line. The ball of the shifter was still in his hand but he held it out, even in height with the floating coils. All at once he released it, pushing it gently forward and instead of falling, it moved through the coils, spiraling with them as the metal twisted and finally dropping out the other side through the hoop of the cylindrical ring and clanging heavily against the metal floor to roll to a halt against his boot.

For a long moment, all he could do was look down at it as the child babbled with excitement.

There had been tales told about powers like this. Stories meant for children, just before dreaming. He had never truly believed, not in much of anything other than war and the strength of a weapon in his hand. All else had been ripped away, so what use would there be in holding faith in what was gone?

All children must grow up at some point. But this one had saved his life.

When his eyes rose just enough to meet the child's, he found he couldn't look away. There was an innocent glee to his gaze, pride in his accomplishment, as he made a gesture as if to reach for the metal ball without moving from his spot.

Shifting the jerky into his left hand, he lowered himself to sit on the ground where he stood. He took the metal into his right for a moment, feeling its weight before rolling it with just enough force so that it crossed the few feet into the child's waiting hand.

"Again," he urged, nodding his helmet toward the floating coils.

He watched as the heavy ball floated, weightless, spiraling faster this time through the coils, nearly sparking, and landing back to the ground with a truly impressive thud.

This time when he reached out, instead of handing the child the ball, he ripped off a chunk of the ronto jerky and held it out to him.

A new vigor awakened in the kid's eyes as he maneuvered himself closer, taking the jerky from his outstretched hand. The moment his focus was broken, the metal ring and coils clattered hard against the ground.

He flinched.

The child squealed with delight.


	2. Chapter 2

He hadn't meant to doze off.

One moment he was checking the navigation and setting their course back to auto pilot, the child now fed and content with crawling up into one of the rear seats and fidgeting with his toes.

And then visions of explosions, dirt flying and metal ripping burned bright behind his eyes, just as they always did in the obscure void just before sleep. The ground shook violently beneath his feet. Sometimes he could feel his father's grip still tight around him, hauling him up, shielding him from what he could of the chaos at their heels. Others, he would meet his mother's terrified eyes and know fear, heart rising in his throat and breath heaving in his chest.

It was the latter that jolted him awake this time, gloved hand trembling as it shot down to hover just over the blaster at his hip, the renewed tension in his muscles screaming their reminder of just all they'd endured over the last few days.

But when his eyes focused, they found no threat. Only the endless depth of darkness and the sparkling galaxies that dotted it, the ship still rumbling softly beneath his boots.

It helped to slow his breathing, the dampened heat almost smothering as it rolled against the inside of his mask, and it was one of the rare times that he wished he could just rip the damned thing off, if only to wipe the cold sweat from his eyes.

He turned to see that the child, too, had fallen into an uncomfortable looking slumber, his chin tucked down against his tunic from where his head was propped up against the back of the chair.

For a moment, he simply watched the steady rise and fall of the kid's tiny chest and willed his breath to match.

Only when it finally did, did he raise his helmet from his head to set it gingerly on the dash beside him so that it made no sound.

The cooler air that filled his lungs was almost sweet when he inhaled, letting his weight lean forward onto his elbows against the console. He removed his right glove, running the back of his bare hand across his eyes, keeping them shut for a long time when his knuckles came to rest at his temple and held his weight as he slouched against them.

His ribs ached in the position he found himself in but not enough to move him. He was sure the skin beneath his armor was darkened there still. There had been no real time to check. No real time to rest. And he was tired in a way that he wasn't too sure sleep could soothe anymore, as hard to come by as it already was.

A short while passed until beneath the pain, a soft hunger beckoned. He gathered his helmet and glove before silently making his way past the sleeping child to the rear of ship.

* * *

The rations scratched like sand in his teeth, but they were nutritious and filled him up. Afterward, he ate just enough of the sweet dried fruit that Kuiil had packed to cleanse the taste from his mouth and stored the rest away. Though he knew they would have to stop soon for provisions and somewhere to keep their heads down, he was still not sure how far would be enough, and there were two mouths to feed on board now.

Hunger sated, he washed his face and hands at the small basin and re-latched his gloves, moving to sit on his cot. He kept his helmet close beside him as he looked around the space through his own eyes. The walls of his chambers were mostly barren, absent of the mementos one would find in a home titled traditional – nurturing. Though he had felt more at home surrounded by metal rather than anything softer for as long as he cared to remember. There was a familiarity that came with it. A lack of distraction. Peace.

Still, even he had to admit to himself it was no place for a child. Even one with a bounty on their head. He, who had grown up surrounded by forged steel and weapons, but knew there were options beyond them for those who could choose. A right every breathing being should have access to.

But he himself could not, and so his ship was dangerous. He was dangerous. And it would follow him like a stain that would not fade and the child was undeserving of it.

A startled cry snatched the thought away.

He rose and slipped his helmet on in the same motion, climbing the few rungs to the cockpit.

The child was in the same spot, his position slumped sideways a bit further than he had been before as he seemed to struggle with something in dream. His head swiveled softly, left to right, before drawing back against the seat as if expecting something to strike. Another soft cry slipped from his lips and a gloved hand moved on its own accord, a feeling steadily building within him nearing fury for whatever caused the terror building behind the child's tightly closed eyes.

"Hey," he tried softly, though it came out sharp around the edges of his mask. His fingers shook the child with a forced gentleness. "Hey, it's okay – you're okay," he tried again. The lie was almost bitter on his tongue.

When big, dark eyes blinked open rapidly, before the child even seemed to process his surroundings, the tears came strong and fitful.

Panic was a familiar foe. The way it gripped your chest and spread its lies through your mind until they were to be believed as solid truths. It had gotten easier over time to wade through with training and practice but there were occasions when it still rolled through his blood, like now when the child looked up at him wide eyed and cried out, both arms reaching up for him as if were as natural an action as breathing.

It hurt more so than the distress on the child's face and something knotted beneath his sternum, for he was so used to chasing and bruising that he wasn't so sure he could soothe. It stopped him where he stood and for a moment he could only look around desperately, as if the flashing of the control panels would show him what to do.

Another choked sob pulled him back to himself and he could bare it no longer. He scooped the child up into his arm, tucking him against the metal plate at his chest somewhat awkwardly as he did what he could to gather enough of the thick neckline of the child's tunic to keep his wet cheek from pressing down on cold iron.

As soon as the child's body was against his, so were its cries. They echoed through the plating like waves, piercing his armor like no other weapon in the galaxy could.

"Shh," he hushed, thoughts flashing to the foundlings of all ages that had been brought in well after him. Watching as their scared eyes searched for something they wouldn't find amongst the clan of masked men and women. He too had searched at first before he was shown purpose, aged differently than the child he now cradled but tender just the same. "Shh – it's alright, it was just a dream."

His gloved hand rose to cup at the back of the child's head, stopping just before it made contact. He hadn't noticed it before – hadn't noticed or hadn't cared until now, but there were streaks of dirt and something darker along the creases of each of his fingers.

He let it fall back loosely in the air, feeling more at a loss than he'd ever had in his life.

It only grew worse when the child turned in his hold to look up and fear, raw and potent, still gripped at its eyes, his long ears pulled down tight against him, and he could only curse without sound and wonder what images the little one's mind had painted to trouble him so. He was reminded then of the child's true age, the scars that amount of time could leave on any being left alone and hunted. Torn from where they belonged and made a prize.

Another curse he knew.

And the thought nearly turned his stomach as he sat gracelessly back into the chair behind him, thankful it was there. For a moment, he did what he could to tune out the child's sobs and catch his breath. He had to with something so fragile in his hold. For this was not a war to be won in a way he was used to, and the thought made his heart race faster still.

Unconsciously, he cradled the child a bit tighter in his arm, bouncing him ever so slightly in a slow rhythm, in an attempt to calm them both.

No, this was a war that he had fought against only himself. There was no point in holding onto the past. No point in wishing things had been different.

But a part of him always had.

What would it have been like growing up in a family, warm and true? A family of blood and kinship instead of fire and steel.

He could remember the floral way his mother smelled. They way she would kiss his cheeks when he would cry. His father's hearty laugh and the warmth he always carried in his eyes.

The memories were a balm as much as they stung when he chose to let them in. But now they were an anchor. A reminder. Of what his life could have been like had they not been torn away. Of what he would have chosen had he been given a choice…

It was that which set him into motion, the child's cries coming back to the front of his attention as he slowly moved his free hand up, hesitating as the leather of his glove made contact with the back edge of his helmet, shifting it forward.

He gave one last look down at the child for any sign of improvement but could only see his own eyes reflecting back at him in the transperisteel of his sightline.

He lifted it from his head then, leaning forward as much as he could to place it on the ground beside him without putting too much pressure against the child. It landed with a soft thump. In the same movement, he lifted his gloved hand to his mouth, gripped the material at the end of his middle finger with his teeth and pull the soiled garment from his hand, releasing it to fall in his lap.

He let his bare fingertips rest against the back of the child's head. It was an odd sensation, the heat from the child's fit mixed with the soft fuzz of his skin, making it like that of something close to human. It had been a long time since he had felt such a thing, running more off instinct than anything as he let his fingers slide gently open and closed against the crown of his head, something he could just barely recall his mother doing to help him drift to sleep on troubled nights. With the steady touch, the child grew silent.

"See, it's alright," he whispered, his true voice rolling from him unhindered, and this time when the child looked to him it was with curiosity more than fear. "They're not going to hurt you anymore."

And in that moment, he wasn't sure if he meant those who still hunted or the dreams that haunted, but his eyes promised more than his words ever could.

* * *

By the time the kid began to droop with sleep again, his own battered form was threatening to as well.

For a long time he sat, telling the child of worlds and stories he was sure he couldn't understand, while convincing himself it was merely to drown out the drone of the engines more than a means to lull him – them back to peace. The child's eyes grew heavy but were reluctant to leave his face and he couldn't find it in himself to feel shame, for he could only look back down at the child and see himself.

He had broken no oath this night, he decided.

When his own hands grew looser around the child now sleeping heavily in his arms, exhaustion washing over him with a new fury, he was unsure of what to do at first.

He stood carefully, shifting the kid up to the crook of his shoulder so that he could lean down to retrieve his helmet in his free hand. He let it hang by his side as he walked them to his quarters.

The space was as small as the rest of the ship, the thin cot pressed against the back wall with a single pillow and blanket folded at the foot. Two crates were stacked just above the head of the bed to serve as a makeshift table.

At first, he thought he could pull the blanket to the floor, curling it into a bed of sorts for the child to rest in, but when he blinked tired eyes and thought about it a moment longer, something about it just didn't feel right.

He had had every intention of giving the child the cot then, resigned to pull the blanket and pillow onto the floor for himself, but as soon as he leaned forward in an attempt to lay the child to rest, it stirred in his loosening hold and whimpered.

A sigh escaped him as he rose to stand, pulling the child back against him.

"Really?" He breathed, asking the universe more than anyone else, before setting his helmet on top of the crates and turning to ease himself and the sleeping bundle in his arm down onto the cot.

For another moment he sat there in the stillness, exhaustion heavy on his shoulders, but there was something at the back of his mind that wouldn't seem to settle.

This was dangerous in its own way. The thing was just so tiny. One wrong shift in sleep – one wrong memory to jolt him awake…

He would just rest his eyes then.

Instead of turning to lay along the cot, he leaned his back against the wall, letting his boots cross comfortably on the floor in front of him. The child was now a pressure against his ribs but the ache was of little consequence. He had suffered far worse.

He awoke hours later from a dreamless sleep with only a stiff neck to ail him.


End file.
